


Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2015 Collection

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Other, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-07 21:52:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 17,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4279251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I am participating in the JWP 2015 challenge. This is the collection of my works. </p><p>Unrelated to each other, in various of my 'verses. Because of the nature of the challenge, these are quick-fic works: minimally edited, not beta read, not brit-picked. </p><p>Any content warnings will be in the author's notes before each chapter; please take care of yourselves and read those if you have triggers and squicks. </p><p>No disrespect intended, no money made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If Anything Can

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: Gen  
> Universe: BBC's Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade  
> Relationships/Pairing: implied John/Sherlock/Greg  
> Summary: If anything can go wrong, it will  
> Content Warnings: none apply  
> Word Count: 812  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read  
> Prompt: Tempting Fate: What Could Go Wrong?

“What are these for?” John had pulled a pair of canvas trousers from the bag Sherlock handed him. The double-thick knees suggested they were for more than just daily wear. A second pair, longer than the first, was followed by a leather belt with twin holsters that would never accommodate a handgun. 

“Grounds keeping. We’re going to sneak onto the grounds today, while the preparations are in full swing. That’s when they’ll make the actual trade. A box of priceless netsuke gets stashed in a garden urn and carried away. They leave behind a box of untraceable cash. During the party tomorrow, Moran messes up the library to make it look like a robbery, collects both the payment and the insurance money, and frames the son of his political rival for the job.”

“We’re masquerading as groundskeepers? Couldn’t we have been, I don’t know, caterers? Parking valets?” 

“You’d never be believable as a waiter, and you don’t know how to drive. Come on, let’s get changed.” Sherlock was already headed toward the bedroom.

“You are aware that I know nothing at all about gardening, right?”

“Any idiot can rake paths. What could go wrong?” 

~*~

Eight Hours Later

“What went wrong?” Greg dabbed carefully at John’s cheek, wincing when the cloth came away pink.

John groaned from his place, slumped on the sofa and with his head tipped back against the cushions. “God, what didn’t? We’d figured out which urn was being used, and Sherlock actually got pictures of Moran when he hid the goods. I got sent to rake some paths the other side of the garden, and next thing I know I hear Sherlock yelling for me.” 

“Which is when you dropped the rake.” Greg caught the ice pack where it threatened to slide off John’s forehead.

“Which is when I dropped the rake, and ran to see what he was yelling about. I guess the buyer had come and was taking the box, but he somehow saw Sherlock taking pictures. Knocked him down and went for the mobile; I got there just when he finally got hold of it and took off. Chased him back toward the driveway.” 

Greg hummed, then picked up the antique magnifying lens and a pair of tweezers. “Was that when you stepped on the rake, or did the bees happen first?” 

John glared. “This isn’t in any way amusing.”

“No, of course not. Hand now, please.” Greg took the offered hand and began examining a scatter of welts. “I think you probably got all the stingers, but let’s be certain. So. When did you knock over the hive?”

“It wasn’t ME that knocked it over; it was the guy I was chasing. Who, as fate would have it, is allergic to beestings but has his goddamn ana-pen inside his coverall. So we’re on the ground, I’m digging through his clothing for the medication, he’s screaming about how allergic he is, there’s bees everywhere, and Sherlock comes up and starts trying to put the damn hive back together instead of calling for an ambulance.” 

Sherlock chose that moment to appear from the kitchen, carrying three mugs of tea with a plate of shortbread balanced over the top. “We needed to save the bees, John.”

“We needed to save my patient, Sherlock.” 

Greg cleared his throat and motioned for Sherlock to put down the tea. “You still haven’t explained about the rake, though. Your suspect was on the ground, so you didn’t miss it because you were chasing him.” 

John, unaccountably, blushed and mumbled about it not being important. 

“Oh, I think it is.” Sherlock sank into the armchair and lifted his feet to the coffee table. Crossing his ankles and leaning back, he explained. “It was after the ambulance had come. They’d administered the ana-pen and loaded the suspect onto the gurney, and were carrying him off. John was running ahead, and the rake was right there, tines sticking up.” Sherlock paused, waved on hand about in the air for a moment. “I wonder if it could even be duplicated; the angles, and pressure, and speed...well, anyway,” he pulled himself back to the story, “John’s foot struck the rake head, and the handle swung up -it really was very like those movies you used to watch, Greg- and smashed into his face. He staggered backwards, nearly overturned the gurney, and next thing I know he’s sitting on the ground snarling at the medic he was just assisting.” 

John threw the bag of ice at Sherlock and collected his mug from the table. Settling back, he blew over the surface of the mug, then took a careful sip. Something tasted different, and he sipped again. Not unpleasant, but definitely not what he’d expected. “What’d you put in my tea?” He looked suspiciously over at Sherlock while Greg sampled his own.

Sherlock smiled beatifically. “Honey, of course.”


	2. Cure for the Common Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Gen  
> Universe: BBC's Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Martha Hudson  
> Relationships/Pairing: implied John/Sherlock  
> Summary: No soup, please  
> Content Warnings: none apply  
> Word Count: 300  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read. Not my best effort, and I’ve used this idea before  
> Prompt: Yellow

“Here you are, dear, nice hot chicken soup and a fresh cuppa.” 

John manfully bit back a comment about chicken soup, hot or otherwise, and allowed Mrs Hudson to plump the pillows at his back. Maybe then she’d go away and let him sleep. But no, she was at him with the damn thermometer again. He knew he was feverish, heavy of bone and aching of joint, and too soon for another dose. 

“Don’t you give me that look. Chasing himself about at all hours, without a decent set of gloves or anything like a warm coat. And where’s he gotten to this time? He ought to be home, looking after you.” No sooner had she made this declaration then the door to the sitting room swung open and Sherlock stepped quietly through.

“Oh! You’re awake.” He hung up his coat and approached the sofa where John was huddled under the bedroom duvet. His lips were cold when he pressed a kiss to John’s forehead; not a mark of affection, but a quick check of John’s status. “Still running a fever; when was your last dose?” 

“Not due for another hour.” John sank deeper into his cocoon and glared at the inoffensive soup. 

Sherlock followed the direction of his gaze, frowned at the bowl, then picked it up and began eating. “Thank you, Mrs Hudson. This is just the thing.” 

“That’s meant to be for John!” 

“Nonsense. John doesn’t want soup when he’s this congested; he won’t be able to taste it. Wasted on him, but I’ll be able to appreciate it fully.” 

Mrs Hudson sighed and aimed a mock-glare at him, then threw up her hands in defeat. “You boys. Fine, then. John, you need to eat. What DO you want, if chicken soup isn’t flavorful enough?” 

“Yellow curry.”


	3. Rememberance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: general  
> Universe: ACD  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes  
> Relationship: John Watson/Mary Morstan (past)  
> Content Warnings: canon compliant character death  
> Word Count: 510  
> A.N.: Not my first attempt at ACD verse, but absolutely my first attempt at First Person POV.  
> Prompt: Picture Prompt: A dried leaf, with half a skull cut into one side

After several days of rain, the sun made a timely return for my visit to the cemetery. How Mary had enjoyed these early days of spring, when bright flowers shouldered aside last year’s leaves and birds sang all around. Many an early morning would find her in the garden, breakfast abandoned, her skirt damp and eyes sparkling while the earth woke all around. It was this fond memory, more than the anniversary of her birth, that drove my yearly visit to her grave. I would clear away winter’s leavings, wipe down the plain stone that bore her name, and leave some flowers by her side. 

I had expected Holmes to chide me when I explained my errand, but he was already out on some business of his own when I awoke, so I departed alone, hoping to return before he did. Of course he would read my doings. Would it be from the soil on my shoe, or the tell-tale creasing of my trousers? Pondering this, I passed through the gate and down the well-tended rows to Mary’s grave. To my surprise, it had already been swept clean. Not a single leaf remained, no smears marred her carved name. Propped neatly against the stone was a cluster of violets, tied with a bit of string. I glanced wildly about, wondering who had done this thing. Mary had left behind no other family; never before had I found evidence of other visitors. The graveyard was empty of all but myself and the dead. No other grave had been so gently tended, no remembrances showed over the litter of tattered leaves. Jealousy surged briefly in my heart, that someone else had completed these duties before I had a chance. Almost before I could acknowledge it myself, I seemed to hear my wife’s voice, telling me not to be a fool. What did it matter? Some other soul, unbeknownst to me, had come here today out of love and fond memory. Should I not be glad that she was so well thought of? This eased my heart, and I stood for several moments in silent communion before laying my own offering beside the violets and departing for home.

As I walked toward the gate, I was surprised to notice a familiar figure standing to one side, waiting for me. 

“I saw you within, and thought you would not want to be disturbed,” Holmes explained. “Have you more errands, or shall we return to Baker Street?” 

My eye was drawn by a bit of color; he had a violet tucked into his buttonhole. “Baker Street, by all means. But what case has brought you here?”

“Oh, I’m not on a case. Just a bit of business, much like yourself. But there is a concert tonight, and I wondered if you might join me?”

He never said anything more on the matter, whatever my attempts to draw him out. But every year I visit Mary on her birthday. And every year there are fresh violets on her grave, and a friend waiting at the gate.


	4. Four Continents Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: general  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: Bill Murray, John Watson, Greg Lestrade  
> Relationship: implied Sherlock/John/Greg  
> Content Warnings: mentions of vomiting  
> Word Count: 336  
> A.N.: quick-fic. No beta or brit-pick.   
> Prompt: The Well Traveled Watson

“Guess we’ll be changing his nickname, now.” Bill Murray announced as he came into the kitchen. “For the record, I told him to stick with the pasta.”

“It’s food poisoning, then?” Greg looked up from where he was checking the contents of the fridge. “Maybe I’d better check with Mrs H; I don’t think we’ve got ‘clear liquids’ on hand. Unless he can have tea?”

“Well, I’m not denying it to him. He’s asleep for now, though. I’m sorry about this, Greg. I really am. Don’t let Sherlock kill me.”

“No worries. He’s off out anyway. Watch the match with me?” 

Some time later, after Murray had reluctantly departed for the airport and Sherlock had texted more than once, Greg peeked into the bedroom. 

John was huddled under the duvet, awake and radiating misery. “Did Murray get off okay? You didn’t let Sherlock at him, did you?” 

“He did, and I didn’t. Sherlock’s not been home yet. How’re you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been turned inside out, trampled, and left for dead.” 

Greg hummed sympathetically. “Want some tea? Murray said you could have some. There’s ginger ale, if you’d rather.” 

“Ginger ale sounds...possible.” 

Drink acquired, Greg sat carefully on the edge of the mattress and watched while John stirred out most of the fizz. “Murray mentioned changing your nickname. What’s that about?”

“God, of course he brought that up. Jerk.” John took a small sip, then winced and set the glass aside. He tipped his head back, swallowed convulsively, and said thickly, “Okay, fine. You know the nickname they gave me?”

“Three Continents Watson. I thought that was to do with...” he let it trail off when John huffed in amusement.

“Yeah, well, carry on letting people think that. Rather have a world class reputation for pulling than puking.” 

Greg said, incredulous, “They call you...Three Continents Watson because...you’ve...oh, my god.” He dissolved into laughter. “Not sex. _Food Poisoning_ on three continents.”

“Four, now,” John croaked, and hurried out of the room.


	5. Love Notes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: general  
> Universe: BBC's Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Mrs Hudson  
> Relationships/Pairing: John/Sherlock/Greg  
> Summary: Mrs Hudson knows a love note when she sees it  
> Content Warnings: none apply  
> Word Count: 614  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read  
> Prompt: Note to Self

Mrs Hudson knows how it is with her boys, even if she’s never heard them utter the words. She sees it in the looks that pass between them, knew long before they told her that one was two and two were three. She let them have their little deception, pretended to believe that Greg was just sharing the space until he got back on his feet, until the divorce was finalized, until he could find a flat...until they couldn’t pretend anymore.

She knew, because she saw the notes. Not secret missives, bundled and tied or creased and faded with multiple readings. No, even in writing, they remain English, and men, and reticent. But there are love letters all the same, albeit of a less conventional nature. But then, what else could they be?

The first one was found, innocently enough, next to the washing machine. John had evidently forgotten to pick it up after emptying his pockets. A simple grocery list, to some, but to one who knew the trio, there was love written in its lines.

  1. Coffee
  2. Shampoo (no argan oil)
  3. Eggs
  4. Pasta



Argan oil brought Sherlock up in hives; it wasn’t for himself that John had made that note. Coffee was Greg’s drink; both Sherlock and John preferred tea if it came down to choices. John may never say the words, but making certain the flat was stocked with preferred and comfortable items was a good as a shout.

 

The next note was Greg’s, and she found it because he’d come downstairs to help her hang some new curtains. Up on the stepladder when his phone chimed, he’d asked her to look at it. 

_Rem. P/U dry cleaning._

“Sherlock’s coat and John’s jumpers,” he’d explained. “Winter’s coming, so I dropped ‘em off on my way to work the other day.” 

She’d nodded, and smiled to see how very much he loved his partners. 

 

Sherlock’s notes took the longest to find, which only made sense, really. Someone so observant, and so disdainful of sentimental display, was naturally going to be cagey about it. But one afternoon she popped up to ask if he needed anything from the shops, and found him updating a spreadsheet on his laptop. “Doing some bookkeeping, are you?”

He grimaced. “Bookkeeping. I leave that to John. This is an experiment. I’ve noticed that sometimes, John or Greg have trouble sleeping.” He pointed to the screen. “These are the items I’ve been tracking: type of sheets, windows open, closed, or just cracked a bit, position in the bed.” 

She looked at the spreadsheet. “Yeeessss, I see. It seems like a lot to keep track of.” 

“I didn’t expect it to take so long, but I’m finally narrowing it down. John sleeps best when he’s in the middle, with me on his left and Greg on his right. Greg doesn’t have a preferred position, but likes high-thread count cotton sheets. They both sleep best, at least in the summer, with the windows either fully open or cracked. I suspect that’s temperature dependent; I’m working on a new sheet that will incorporate both the outdoor and indoor readings.” 

“Of course. What about pyjamas, or bed socks? Do they have a preference there?” she asked, with the thought that she needed to get started on her Christmas shopping.

Sherlock groaned and threw himself backwards in his chair. “Mrs Hudson! You’ve just...months of data...how did I miss it? Pyjamas!” He leaned forward again and began frantically tapping at the keyboard. “Flannel...cotton...socks...tee-shirt and boxers...SO MUCH DATA!”

Mrs Hudson tsked, and left him to it, thinking that such an odd love note was only what she’d have expected.


	6. In Memoriam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: gen  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes  
> Relationships/Pairing: none  
> Summary: Mycroft sends John a gift  
> Content Warnings: none  
> Word Count: ~400  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read  
> Prompt: Quotation Prompt. "Imitate the actions of a tiger." --Shakespeare, Henry V

It was a much smaller number of boxes than John had expected, really. Barely half the floor space in the sitting room; fewer than during the Banker case, with all the books. 

“Are you sure there’s nothing you’d like to keep, Dr Watson? Some remembrance?” Mycroft asked, before nodding to the two men and one woman to begin hauling things down to a waiting van. 

“Yeah, no, it’s...fine.” What did Mycroft think he was going to do? Erect a shrine, perhaps, some little corner shelf with the skull, the hat, a flickering candle. “I don’t need anything.” 

“Very well, then.” He picked up the violin, leaving his hired help to finish removing the rest of Sherlock’s belongings. His footsteps sounded heavily on the stairs leading to the street.

“Just out of curiousity,” John spoke to one of the moving men. “Where is all this stuff going?” Not a charity shop, please. Just because John didn’t want it...Mycroft wouldn’t be so cold, would he?

“Storage facility, until Mr Holmes can sort through it.” 

There didn’t seem to be much else to say, so John left his key on the hall table and returned to the bedsit across town. 

Some weeks later he was returning from a job interview, when he found a package sitting by his door. It had a surprising heft for its size; he tucked it under his arm to unlock the door and carried it to his desk to examine further. There was no return address. Nestled inside the stiff cardboard, cushioned with crackling paper, was a bronze tiger. About two feet long from fang to tail, with a rich patina, sleek and snarling, one foot raised above the base as if stalking prey. John recalled that it had prowled along a lower shelf at Baker Street; memento of some case or other, perhaps. 

There was a note inside the box, a simple ivory card with the words “Imitate the action of a tiger” handwritten on the front. The message inside was in the same handwriting. 

_Dr Watson,_

_I know you said you did not desire to keep anything in memory of my brother. But it seemed fitting to me that you should have this statue. If you cannot find it in your heart to accept this from one who brought about his downfall, please consider it a gift from Sherlock himself._

_M. Holmes_


	7. Neither Man nor Mouse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: gen  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Molly Hooper  
> Relationships/Pairing: none mentioned  
> Summary: Molly Hooper is neither man, nor mouse  
> Content Warnings: **mentions of unwanted advances, stalkerish behavior, and victim blaming**  
>  Word Count: 594  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read  
> Prompt: Unwanted Attention. Whether it's a client gone stalkerish or a secret admirer who won't take a hint, one of the characters must cope with unwanted advances. How he/she deals with it and what happens is up to you.

The report was filled out as meticulously as ever, the summary succinct and discrepancies flagged. Sherlock flipped through it, crowing triumphantly when he saw that he’d been right. 

“Yes, alright. Very good.” John pulled out his phone and called Lestrade, gave him the information, then plucked the file from Sherlock’s hands. “I’ll just return this to Molly.” 

It was in the hallway that he heard the noise; a series of muffled thuds and grunts that meant whoever was fighting really meant it. He picked up the pace, hurrying to the next hallway. Before he could get around the corner there was a resounding **WHANG** , followed by a heavy thud and a panting voice casting aspersions on someone’s hygiene, parentage, and intelligence. 

“Molly?” Turning into the hallway nearest the morgue entrance, he saw her standing over an unconscious man. She was holding a large stainless steel bowl poised for throwing, panting, and glaring fiercely at John. “Don’t...please don’t throw that at me.” He raised both hands. 

“John? Okay, good.” She dropped the bowl with a clatter and leaned over the man on the floor. “Can you call the police, please?” she asked, while removing his shoes. While John watched, she secured her...victim’s?... wrists and ankles with his own shoelaces. 

“What shall I tell them?” John pulled out his phone and only then noticed that Molly’s handbag was blocking the door to the morgue. “Did he try to get your purse?” 

“What? No, I dropped it there. Didn’t want to get tangled up in it. Braided my hair, too, so he couldn’t grab me.” 

For the second time that evening, John finished relaying a message to the police and stuffed his phone back into his pocket. He nodded to show he’d heard what she said, and looked again at the scene. Something didn’t quite...wait. She’d braided her hair, which meant that- “You knew there was going to be a fight?” 

“Well of course I did. Agreed to meet him here, didn’t I?” She looked at John for a long moment, then sighed. “Alright, fine. Look, that’s Dr Schaff. He’s been...well, I guess he’s been stalking me. Not that anyone else thinks that’s what it is. Wanted to share a table at lunch, go out for coffee, buy me a drink. Kept showing up, saying things...I thought at first it was harmless, but then there started to be notes, he’d creep up behind me and try to give me a shoulder rub, say things about how tense I was, how I needed someone to help me relax.”

John glared at the supine figure. “You should’ve told someone.” 

“Don’t you think I didn’t. But they blew it off, said he was just trying to be friendly, he was socially backward. Asked if maybe I was just making a big fuss about nothing. So. I saved all the notes, made sure to turn him down when there were witnesses. Agreed to meet him after work today, but not when anyone would hear me. And then, well, I let him have it.” She tossed her head and sniffed. 

John just stared. There was the sound of feet coming down the hallway, and an unfamiliar police officer rounded the corner, just ahead of Sherlock.

“John! What’s happened?”

“Someone was stalking Molly. No, don’t look like that. It’s been taken care of.” 

“Good. What did you do?” 

“Nothing at all. It was all over before I got here. Not everyone needs an ex-soldier to defend them. But, Sherlock?”

“Hmmm?” 

“Don’t piss Molly off anymore, okay?”


	8. The Endless Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: Teen (?)  
> Universe: BBC Sherlocik  
> Characters: John Watson, soldier  
> Relationships/Pairing: None, implied John/Sherlock, implied John/Mary  
> Summary: John’s dreams aren’t of what you might think  
> Content Warnings: mentions of death, war, angst  
> Word Count: 221 (I don’t even know how that happened and I am not going to mess around looking for a B)  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read. This is almost certainly ‘Hollywood Romanticized War’. Soldiers deserve honesty, respect, and gratitude; please don’t take fiction for True Narrative about their experiences.   
> Prompt: The Ballad of Reading Gaol
> 
> "I never saw a man who looked  
> With such a wistful eye  
> Upon that little tent of blue  
> Which prisoners call the sky,  
> And at every drifting cloud that went  
> With sails of silver by."
> 
> \--Oscar Wilde

He dreams of the war. It’s not uncommon, of course. Emotional intensity leaves its mark on soldier and civilian alike. He doesn’t talk about the dreams. Not to Sherlock Before, or Mary, or his therapist, or Sherlock After. He says things like ‘didn’t sleep well’ or ‘had a rough night’ or ‘it’s FINE, I’m FINE, leave it ALONE’. They know what he means, and learn not to press.

He doesn’t dream of himself, of the day he was shot, or the fever that ravaged his body. Or, if he does, it is not these dreams that leave him shattered and shaking.

He dreams of the ones whose limbs were lost even when their lives were saved, and wonders how they’ve fared. 

He dreams of the ones he couldn’t help, already gone by the time he got there. 

And he dreams of a young man, lying on the sand, gazing up at the cloud dusted sky and whispering low. “It’s beautiful up there. My mum, she loves the sky. Says even if it’s grey for us, it’s blue and happy somewhere else. Don’t tell her the sky was so perfect today. Don’t tell her, Watson.” 

These are the dreams that send him from his bed, that set him watching as the stars vanish and the sun comes up in the endless sky.


	9. Upgrade?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: gen  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, original child characters  
> Relationships/Pairing: implied Lestrade/Molly  
> Summary: John is babysitting when disaster strikes the doll’s house  
> Content Warnings: irreverent observations of beloved science fiction monsters  
> Word Count: 568  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.I was originally working on something angsty as heck...but nah.   
> Prompt: Healer’s Choice: One person Watson chose not to save

“Okay, stand back now. Watch it...and...up she comes...there.” John hefted the dolls house back up onto the low table that served as a base and lifted it to eye level for the young Lestrade-Hoopers. 

“Thank you Uncle John!” Six year old Jennifer began gathering up the furniture that had been tumbled out of the house when it was knocked off the table. Andrew, her twin brother, was very seriously inspecting the frame of the house for damage. 

“I’m sorry, Jen-fer. I didn’t mean to knock it down. I don’t think it’s hurt at all. My TARDIS is okay, too.” 

John held his breath, wondering which way Jennifer was going to go on this incident. She glared at her brother, but grudgingly said, “I know you didn’t. Help me put it back...oh, no! Miss Stacy and Mr Edgar!” She scooped up two dolls from the wreckage and held them out to John. “They’re all broken!” 

John took the little figures and sat down on the floor. Jennifer was rooting through the rest of the furniture, looking for the rest of the family. Miss Stacy’s head had come apart from her torso, but that was a fairly easy fix, requiring only that he pop the neck stem into the hole at the base of the soft vinyl head. Mr Edgar would require more extensive surgery; the bands that held him together had been broken. “Andrew, can you fetch me your dad’s toolbox, and some rubber bands from the kitchen. Oh, and one of those great big paperclips.” 

Soon, he was directing Andrew in pulling a short elastic band through the Mr Edgar’s torso with a bent out paperclip while his deft surgeon’s fingers slipped S-hooks into place. Mr Edgar’s limbs slipped neatly back into their sockets, the hook on his neck was fixed onto the rubber band, and he was restored. Jennifer took him with a small sniffle. 

“Baby Chester is okay, and all the horses and dogs, but Minny is smashed up.” The last character hadn’t been made of such sturdy materials, and had broken into several small pieces. 

“I suppose we could glue…” Andrew suggested doubtfully.

But John had gathered the bits together into a tissue, and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, Andrew. The pieces are too small.” 

“Then what do we do?” 

“I think you’re going to have to find a way to make it right with your sister.” 

Jennifer was quick, he knew. Sure enough, she seized on the opportunity right away. “You can give me the Doctor.”

Andrew looked from her resolute face to John’s. “I won’t! You can’t have the Doctor!” 

“You broke Miss Minnie and now baby Chester needs a new nanny.”

“Do I have to?” he appealed to John.

“I think you should replace the toy you broke, Andrew. You were being careless. It can be a loan, until Jennifer gets a new nanny doll.” 

“Fine.” Andrew stormed away, and could be heard rummaging in the storage box under his bed. Finally he returned and all but threw the replacement at his sister. 

It was a cyberman. John held his breath, expecting an outburst, but Jennifer just picked up the toy and settled baby Chester carefully in its outstretched arms. 

“Isn’t that kind of scary, for a nanny? All the stomping?” 

Jennifer shook her head. “Nah. They sound like the wrong trousers. That’s not scary.”


	10. Place Holder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a place holder for the one I didn't complete :-(

There will be a fic here someday.


	11. A New Coat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: general  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
> Relationships/Pairing: Greg/Sherlock/John  
> Summary: Remember that awful green jacket? So do Sherlock and Greg  
> Content Warnings: none   
> Word Count: ~575  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.  
> Prompt: Coat Porn: Outerwear

“Look in the window, there. I think that one would suit you.” It was a very nice coat. A soft dove-blue-grey, with a black fur collar and lining. Nice deep pockets, and double breasted, which he favored. Sherlock was sure John would love it. 

“I’m not buying a new coat, Sherlock. There’s nothing wrong with the one I already have.” 

“No. Of course not. But wouldn’t it be worth having a spare? Something maybe a little warmer, or for dressing up?” 

John just shook his head. “This one is warm enough. I don’t get dressed up, so there’s no need for that. And I have a spare, remember?” 

Sherlock remembered. He would never forget the green monstrosity that John had worn out to Dartmoor. He and Greg had agreed that a reappearance was to be prevented, but John was proving surprisingly difficult on the matter. 

 

~*~

“You got the new trousers, then?” John nodded toward where Greg was carefully removing tags and hanging up the items in question.

“Yeah. Got three pair, since they’ve got a sale on. There were some nice coats, too, good bargains and lots of sizes left,” he hinted.

“What is it with you two? Is something wrong with my jacket?” 

“No! No, nothing. It’s a fine jacket. Just, well, worth having a back-up, yeah? All the nonsense Sherlock gets you into, never know what might happen.” 

“I’m not buying a brand new coat just so Sherlock has an excuse to send me skip-diving.” 

Which, Greg thought, might at least be an answer to the green coat’s existence, except that John would have to wear it for it to be ruined. 

~*~

“Just John’s gift left, then.” Greg handed over a large box wrapped in shiny blue paper, with a conspiratorial grin at Sherlock. 

John unwrapped it, pulled off the lid, and discovered… “A coat.” Heavy dark wool with a rich purpley collar. “Well, this is very nice. Very nice indeed.” He shook out the folds and shrugged into it. “Thank you.” 

Sherlock and Greg smiled; John’s black jacket was going to be retired, too.

~*~

Greg was leaning over the railing, desperately scanning the frigid waters below. “I can’t see him; come on, John, show yourself.” 

Behind him, he could hear the counterfeiter being hustled into a police car; Sherlock was scrambling down the embankment toward where John had last been seen, disappearing into the water. A crowd was gathering despite the best efforts of Greg’s colleagues. 

“Has Sherlock got him?” He hadn’t even noticed Sally approaching.   
“No. He went in about there -” Greg pointed to a spot directly below them - “and Sherlock’s there. Current isn’t bad, but it’s deep. His coat...it’s wool...he’ll be dragged down.” The heavy coat that they’d given him for Christmas, pulling him into the dark waters. Greg was barely aware of the other people lining the railing, scanning the water for the man who’d gone over.

A voice cried out, “There he is!”

Other voices took up the cry, half-a-dozen hands pointing to the blond head that had just broken the surface. A couple of officers were holding Sherlock back, preventing him wading in and trying to rescue John. For his part, John was making slow but steady progress toward the shore. Greg broke free and began running toward the edge, shouting for blankets. 

One thing for certain: John would be wearing his back-up coat for the foreseeable future. And neither Sherlock nor Greg would mind.


	12. Evidence to the Contrary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: gen  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Mycroft Holmes, Evidence (dog)  
> Relationships/Pairing:   
> Summary: John and Sherlock pet sit  
> Content Warnings:   
> Word Count: ~715  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.  
> Prompt: Doyle vs Dogs

“I didn’t even know they had a dog.” John was reading the e-mail request over Sherlock’s shoulder. “When did they get a dog?”

“Some stray Lestrade brought home. Boxer cross, or so they think. Mycroft is fond of dogs, but of course he wouldn’t admit he wanted to keep her until he was manipulated into thinking that’s what Lestrade wanted. They’re as bad as each other.” 

“Hmmm. Well, glad to know there’s someone who can manipulate him. When is she coming?” John pulled out his phone and began tapping, trying to find the calendar app Sherlock had insisted he start using.

“I don’t like dogs.”

“Sherlock, that’s utter nonsense. I know you like dogs; what about Toby? And Dumbledore, next door?” 

“Toby is a working dog, John. And Dumbledore...he’s more decoration than dog.” 

John picked up the tea that had appeared on the kitchen worktop and offered a cup to Sherlock while rolling his eyes. “Well, I like dogs. I’ll look after her if you won’t.” 

“I’m sure Mrs Hudson won’t want a dog around.” 

Sherlock had apparently forgotten that their landlady was possessed of excellent hearing, or perhaps didn’t realize that she was in the kitchen. She poked her head around the door and said, “I’m sure I don’t mind if you boys do a favor for your brother.”

“Very well. On your heads be it.”

~*~

“She sleeps in her crate, most nights.” Greg was carefully fluffing up the blankets in the plastic enclosure. “I’ve put a couple of shirts in there; she likes to have something that smells like us.” 

John was reading over the instructions while the dog sniffed about the sitting room. “Mycroft wrote this, didn’t he?”

Sherlock looked at him. “Very good, John. I didn’t think you’d notice the laser printer.”

“Um, yeah. Laser printer, of course. Actually, it was the full page list of veterinarians and their particular specialties.” 

Greg said, seriously, “we just wanted to make sure she had the right care if anything goes wrong.” He snapped his fingers, and Evi trotted over and sat squarely in front of him, ears flopping when she tipped her head to one side. He gave her a scratch, commanded her to stay, and handed off the leash. Then he was out the door, and John was in charge of the dog. 

Everything was fine, until bedtime. Sherlock retreated to their room while John took Evidence for one last outing, then sent her into her crate and turned off the lights. No sooner had he settled into the bed, curled away from Sherlock but with one foot pressed against his calf, then the dog set up a pitiful whining. 

“John…” Sherlock spoke warningly.

“Ignore her. She’ll settle down when she realizes it doesn’t work.” 

_Whine. Whine. Whinewhinewhine._

John held his breath in the next pause, waited until several moments had passed. “See. She’s gone to sleep.”

_WHINE. whinewhinewhine. Whine. WHINEwhimperwhine._

Evi’s displeasure was quickly followed by Sherlock’s. “John. Make the beast be quiet.” 

John sighed, climbed out of bed, and strode firmly into the sitting room. “Evi. That’s enough. Be quiet now.” 

He got a drink of water, and returned to bed. The darkness settled around him and he let himself go soft, sliding into the peaceful edges of sleep.

_Whine. Whine. Whine. WHINE. WHINEHOWL. Whine._

Sherlock grunted and poked him. John kept his eyes closed and his body limp. Quiet descended once more.

 _WHINE. whine whine whine whine whine._

Sherlock sighed, heavily and noisily. John pretended to be asleep. Sherlock got up in a rustle of bedclothes and dressing gown, and left the room. There was silence, and John fell asleep for real. 

~*~

He woke to the alarm clock chirping softly; right, he had a shift this morning. Sherlock was snoring lightly beside him, and he quickly silenced the clock and sat up, scrubbing at his face. The dog must have finally settled down...in their bed. There was no mistaking the brindle and white bundle that was curled between his and Sherlock’s bodies. In fact, it wasn’t his husband who was snoring, but their visitor. She opened her eyes when John slipped out of the bed, then settled even more heavily into the little nest she’d occupied through the night. 

By the time he’d showered and dressed, the dog was ready for breakfast and an outing. She trotted briskly up the steps upon their return and went immediately to where Sherlock was sitting on the couch with his tea and laptop. One quick leap, and she was curling into a tidy ball against his thigh with her chin draped over his lap. Sherlock smiled softly and rested his hand over the curve of her skull, until he caught John looking. Then he stood up, although John noticed he did so very gently, and strode into the kitchen. The dog jumped off the sofa and followed, waiting until he was settled at his microscope before spreading out on the floor at his feet. John shook his head, dropped a kiss onto Sherlock’s curls, and left for work.

~*~

Five days later, Mycroft came to pick up Evidence and her belongings. An assistant hauled the crate down to the waiting car while he thanked John for his help. 

“Oh, it wasn’t any trouble. Sherlock actually…”

“Yes, yes, Mycroft doesn’t want to hear about that, no time to talk, I’m sure Lestrade is waiting.” Sherlock quickly snapped the leash onto Evi’s collar and pressed it into Mycroft’s hand, nearly pushing his brother through the door and into the returning driver. 

“Yes?” Mycroft asked.

The driver held out a distinctive plum colored shirt. “I found this in the kennel and thought your brother might want it back.”


	13. Where Do You See Yourself...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: gen  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: Greg Lestrade, John Watson  
> Relationships/Pairing: John/Sherlock/Greg  
> Summary: It’s That Assignment: Where do you see yourself in X number of years.   
> Content Warnings: none  
> Word Count: 472  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.  
> Prompt: Tale Foretold

“Last box, John.” This one was a banker’s style box, neatly labeled with John and Harriet’s names, and school years.

“Thanks, Greg.” John leaned over the kitchen table to open the box. Every year was in it’s own hanging folder, with manila folders in each labeled _John_ and _Harriet_. “For heaven’s sake, what on earth was Harry doing keeping all this?” 

Greg started at the front. “Anything particular I should look toward keeping?” 

“God, I don’t know. Letters? Artwork, I guess. Harry liked to draw. This is mostly going to be reports and junk.” 

He started at the other end, quickly sifting through the grade reports and essays and setting them aside for the recycling bin. An envelope, addressed to him in his own youthful penmanship, was the last item. Puzzled, he slipped it open. 

_Dear Me,_

_This is a weird assignment, but whatever. I’m supposed to write about what I wish for myself when I’m ‘an adult’. Well, obviously, I want to be really rich and very fit. Maybe tall, but it’s looking pretty much too late for that. ~~I want all the girls to be crazy about John Watson.~~. _

_Yeah, okay, that’s pretty silly. So here’s what I really want. I want to not be afraid anymore. I want to make a difference in the world. Maybe be a doctor, but a good one, so that nobody else has to lose their Da in a bad surgery. Or maybe a soldier, like Grandad._

_I want to be happy. I really hope future me is braver than right now me. But most of all, I want to not be bored. So, that’s all, I guess._

_John H. Watson, 1987_

_PS Just one more thing. I really hope I can be in love. The guys would make fun of me for it, but Ms P said we don’t have to be read out. In case that’s not true: don’t you guys dare laugh. Remember, I KNOW THINGS. And I saw how much Mum loved Da. It sucks so hard that he’s gone, but I think she’ll be better someday because she loved him._

“John.” Greg rested a hand on his shoulder. “That’s amazing, really. I don’t know too many people who can say they knew themselves so well when they were, what, 16?” 

John shrugged. “Yeah, 16. I remember the assignment now. God, we all hated it. But after a bit, you could see people sort of start taking it seriously. Except Gennie Foster, but then I guess if anyone was going to become an exotic dancer it’d’ve been her.” He folded the letter back into it’s envelope and added it to the recycling pile.

He didn’t notice when Greg scooped it up and tucked it away in the bookcase to share with Sherlock.


	14. Beastly Flatmate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Werewolf AU

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: gen  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade (sort of), Mycroft Holmes (sort of)  
> Relationships/Pairing: None specified. Can be read as John/Sherlock and Greg/Mycroft  
> Summary: John never paid attention to the lunar cycles before Baker Street.  
> Content Warnings: none apply  
> Word Count: 1100  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read. I’m not sure I understand ‘shmoopy’; can I have points for ‘u tried’?  
> Prompt: Not So Cute. It's easy to be shmoopy when there are adorable baby animals involved. Try to create something shmoopy with a less-than-adorable and/or not-quite-a-baby animal.

John never paid attention to the lunar cycles before Baker Street. Two years after getting shot, he keeps a calendar in the kitchen, a chart in his desk at the clinic, one app on his phone, and another on his laptop. The spiral of beads that hangs in the foyer is pretty, and he likes the way the filigree pentagram moves from one bead to the next until the moon comes full and it is re-positioned at the top of the string. But that one is Mrs Hudson’s, keyed into the house-wards, and he knows better than to touch it. The charm is at the top, indicating that the moon reached ‘full’ sometime that afternoon, and he can smell the incense drifting under the door to her flat. Sherlock’s probably already changed, then. He sighs. It’s chucking down rain outside, has been all day, and his flatmate is going to want to go _out_.

It’s while he’s sauteing a fresh rabbit that he hears the low growl coming from behind him. “That’s not going to work, Sherlock. This one is for my cacciatore. Yours is in the fridge whenever you want it.”

There’s a huff, and the click of toenails on the lino, and Sherlock is standing behind him, lifting his nose to the seat of John’s trousers. John swats him away, ignoring the snap of Sherlock’s jaw with the carelessness of familiarity, and transfers the meat into a slow cooker. He pours over the tomatoes and wine, sets the lid in place, and nods. “Alright, then. Just let me get my slicker.” 

The law requires that any were on the streets before midnight be accompanied by a human. John doesn’t know who used to serve as Sherlock’s minder before he came on the scene, but suspects it was Lestrade. He doesn’t envy the man; keeping up with just one Holmes is plenty. Sherlock likes to run, and when he isn’t running he likes to sniff, and John has given up on stopping him rolling in filth. As vain as he is about his human coiffure, he doesn’t seem to care what gets all over his coat. Tonight is a river night, because of course John isn’t wet enough. He loses track of the bridges they’ve wandered under, Sherlock always racing just ahead to the next stop. By the time midnight arrives, he’s soaked from the rain and panting happily as his picks his way along the river’s edge. His nose lifts, tracking a scent that is coming over the river, and he walks a few more steps until the water laps over his front paws. 

“Sherlock, don’t you dare.” Not that he can get any wetter, but at least the rain is _clean_. Sherlock doesn’t even twitch an ear, just lifts his head and lets out a long howl. It starts out low, then rises in a mournful crescendo guaranteed to give anyone in a two mile radius the creeping horrors. John just sighs and pulls out his mobile.

From the other side of the river there is an answering howl, and John’s phone chirps. 

_Ghastly out here. Why do we put up with them again?_

_No idea._

Evidently they aren’t going to meet up tonight, which John thinks is a pity. Sherlock’s relationship with Mycroft is very different when they are in wolf-form. The scrapping for leadership is more playful than acrimonious, and through the puppyish behavior John and Greg can see a little of the children they once were. Finished with his howl, Sherlock trots back to John and noses his hips until John turns toward home. Then he takes off at a fast gallop, leaving John to try and keep pace. 

~*~

Back home, Sherlock is waiting for him by the door. John unlocks it and fixes him with a beady eye. “No shaking until you’re in the bathroom.” They drip and squelch their way up to the flat, John holding the door for Sherlock before removing his slicker. His jeans are wet to the knee, but his shirt and jumper have remained fairly dry. He bends to take off his sodden shoes and catches sight of Sherlock, lowering his head and extending his neck. “Sherlock, don’t!” 

His words are a split-second too late; Sherlock has thrown himself into a hard shake, his front paws actually leaving the floor in a series of thumps. Water flies everywhere, spattering the coffee table and floor, dampening John’s shirt, the last few drops flicked off the tip of Sherlock’s tail and dripping down the door. 

“Dammit.” He can’t stay angry though. Sherlock has sat back on his haunches, mouth open in what can only be called a grin, the fur on his head and neck standing out in clumps and spikes. John takes a blanket off his chair and spreads it in front of the fireplace, then pokes up the embers. “I’m going to change.” 

When he emerges from the bedroom he finds Sherlock on the blanket chewing at his tail to groom it. The flat smells enticingly of rabbit stew, and he spoons out a generous portion and sets up a tray in the sitting room. Sherlock taps into the kitchen and contorts his neck to pull the fridge open and grab a rabbit from the lower shelf. He carries it to his blanket, and the flatmates eat in companionable silence, aside from Sherlock’s occasional growl over his rabbit. John knows he doesn’t really mean it and takes it as an indication that the transition is still some way off. 

“Come on, then,” he pats the cushion next to him. Sherlock slinks up, eyes on the door the whole while. He’s not quite gotten past the time Mrs Hudson caught them out, but wolves are physical by nature and he’s not been touched by anyone tonight. Grumbling low in his throat, he circles and circles until the cushion has been mauled into shape, then collapses with a grunting sigh. His head is heavy in John’s lap, the fur of his ruff fluffing out now that he’s dry. John roughs it up and smooths it down. Sherlock opens his mouth in a yawn, closes it again with his jaws light clasping John’s wrist. They are warm and dry, with full bellies and comfortably familiar smells all around them. The basics of contentment, he muses, are the same for human and werewolf alike. Adventures, and home, and pack. He yawns, and pulls his hand from Sherlock’s mouth to rub at his ears, his movements and Sherlock’s breathing slowing until they both fall asleep.


	15. Rules of the Range

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: teen, just to be safe  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mother Goose  
> Relationships/Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes  
> Summary: John and Sherlock are undercover at a fancy dress ball  
> Content Warnings: bad American stereotypes.   
> Word Count: 444  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read. Written at the last minute, with a saying that’s only classic in certain circles.  
> Prompt: That Old Saying. The old Egyptian saying "ابن الوزّ عوّام. (ibn il-wazz 3awwam.) ("The son of a goose is a swimmer.") is roughly the same sentiment as the English "Like father, like son." Whether it's one of these statements or another adage, include some classic saying in today's entry. Bonus points if you also manage to include a goose!

The masquerade ball was in full swing, champagne flowing freely, waiters circulating amongst the merry crowd with trays full of dainty nibbles. On the outskirts, Sherlock was prowling amongst the benches and decorative planters, watching for Lord Moran’s contact to trade the box of antique netsuke for an envelope of cash. He dodged a pierrot, skirted around a cluster of women wearing vaguely greek costumes, and settled on a stone bench next to John.

“Captain...where’s your hook?” 

“Don’t call me captain, and don’t ask about the damn hook. You wouldn’t believe the nonsense people say.”

“It wouldn’t have been a problem if you hadn’t mixed up the costumes.” He flicked a finger disdainfully over the extravagant fringe that pooled around his hips.

John glared at the revelers cavorting about the courtyard. “Yes, because obviously nobody can come up with an innuendo about a cowboy. Especially one in such...delightful...chaps.” He mimicked a tipsy woman, leaning in and stroking the star on Sherlock’s vest suggestively. “Ooooh, Sheriff, can I help unload your six-shooter?”

“John. Stop that.” Sherlock pushed his hand away and gestured toward a woman wearing oversized pince-nez, a towering black hat, and carrying a plush goose under her arm. “Mother goose is going to make the switch.” 

Together, they slipped behind a shrubbery and crouched low. Sherlock pulled his mobile out of the holster at his hip and began snapping pictures. Mother goose approached the planter, pulled out the small box of antiquities, and unceremoniously shoved them into a hole in the bottom of her stuffed toy. Sherlock continued snapping pictures as she walked back into the crowd. 

“Did you notice who that was?” John stood up and dusted off the knees of his breeches.

“I did.” Sherlock stayed where he was, crouched awkwardly on the ground. 

“And you got good pictures, yeah? So let’s get out of here.” He extended a hand to help Sherlock up.

“I...seem to be stuck.” Sherlock was wobbling now, unable to stay in the uncomfortable squat he’d assumed to take the pictures, but apparently unable to stand up, either. 

John placed a steadying hand on his shoulder, and peered behind him. The problem became clear almost immediately: Sherlock’s oversized spurs had gotten tangled in the fringe that dangled from his chaps. John paused for a moment, enjoying the sight of Sherlock’s denim clad bottom framed in black suede, before snickering and beginning to untangle him.

“God, Sherlock, don’t you know anything about the Wild West? You’ve broken one of the most important rules.” John paused for dramatic effect before affecting a bad american drawl. “Ever’buddy knows, son, that ya’ don’t squat with yer spurs on.”


	16. Place Holder 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently a place holder.

Place holder for July 16th prompt.


	17. Place Holder 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Place Holder. The fic is started, but sort of petered out in the middle.

Place holder for prompt 17.


	18. The Game is On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rating: gen  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade  
> Relationships/Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade  
> Summary: Sherlock is bored  
> Content Warnings: none apply  
> Word Count: 266  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.   
> Prompt: The Games We Play. Involve a game of some sort in your story, whether it's a round of whist, an intense night of Cluedo, or a Pac-Man tournament.

Two weeks since the last case. John had tried to keep Sherlock busy with a coffee tasting experiment, realizing after the fact that the only thing worse than Sherlock being bored was Sherlock being bored and blitzed on caffeine. Greg had tried to keep him busy by challenging him to ‘hide the drugs’ (actually a zip bag of pencil shavings) while he was at work, with stakes set in 15 minute increments. This ended with Mrs Hudson’s flat being declared off limits, Sherlock getting to choose the next three ‘togetherness activities’, Greg providing five cold case files, and neither speaking to the other.

The next morning, John present Greg with a sheet of A4. It was marked out in a five by five grid. Across the top was written the word BORED, and the boxes held descriptions such as ‘insults Mrs Hudson’ or ‘disconnects doorbell’. 

“What’s this?” Greg nodded to the sheet John was holding.

“Bingo card. If he does the thing, mark the box. Game runs until one of us wins, or he gets a case. Winner picks the pub.” He pursed his lips. “Or pubs, if you want to go for the fancy patterns.” 

“We’re going to have a pub crawl at the end?” Greg couldn’t help laughing.

“I think we’ll have earned it, don’t you?” From the bedroom came the sound of drawers slamming and Sherlock stomping about. 

Greg looked at his sheet again; abusing furniture appeared under the letter R. He grabbed a pencil from the desk and drew an X in the square. 

“Oh, yeah. The game is absolutely on.”


	19. Waking Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Author: kestrel337  
> Rating: teen for mentions of violence (off screen)  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes (mentioned)  
> Relationships/Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes  
> Summary: John wakes up in the hospital  
> Content Warnings: Takes place in hospital  
> Word Count: 649  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read. Lame ending because I went to see Mr Holmes and ran out of time  
> Prompt: While You Were Sleeping

John couldn’t have said what it was he recognized; perhaps the hush, or the smell, or some other less-identifiable atmosphere that screamed ‘hospital’. In all likelihood it was the drawn-out and familiar sensation of waking from anesthesia, disoriented and mildly nauseous and with a non-specific sense of something being badly wrong.

The prudent move, he remembered, was actually not to. Not to so much as twitch, or try to open his eyes, or roll over, until more of the anesthesia had left his system. He remained motionless, allowing himself to drift in the space that wasn’t sleep and wasn’t waking.

Sherlock. Sherlock ought to be here. 

There were quiet footsteps; a nurse coming into his room. “Dr Watson, it’s Marjorie. Time to check your vitals.”

Marjorie. He remembered her; had worked with her just the other day. Marjorie, who always talked to the patients even when she had no reason to believe they heard. But why was he alone? 

“There now. Did a number on you, didn’t they? But you’ll be right as rain before you know it. The knife missed all the vital bits, and Dr Loen got everything back together again.”

Knife. A blade, cliche bright, bursting into his awareness moments before it stuck into his shoulder. His vision fuzzing out at the pain of it, tunneling around the image of Sherlock.

Sherlock. Sherlock yelling his name, not seeing the man behind him. Not seeing the hatchet swinging toward his head. John’s vision had gone black, then, but he’d clearly heard the crunch of metal meeting flesh.

John didn’t want to be awake enough to identify the sound of men’s leather-soled shoes entering the room. Traitorous body, keeping him awake. Keeping him alive, when Sherlock was gone.

“How is he?” Mycroft’s voice was hushed and hoarse with fatigue. 

“Who are you, then?” 

There was a shuffling sound, papers being offered. “Next of kin in the absence of my brother. Who, for obvious reasons, cannot be here. Now. How is my brother-in-law?” 

“He’s stubborn. Ought to be waking up soon, though.” A gentle touch slid over his chest; Marjorie, adjusting his blanket. 

“And we can move him after that? It will be so much easier for everyone if we can get him installed in Sherlock’s room.” 

What? 

“Your brother’s something else, you know that? How long are we...having him?” 

“Overnight for observation. He did strike his head quite hard.” 

John forced his eyes open, fought against the pull of the blanket to sit up only to sink back under a rolling wave of nausea. Taking short breaths, he begged Mycroft to answer his unspoken confusion.

“Dr Watson!” Marjorie pressed him back into the pillow, assessed his color and offered a bag from the dispenser on the wall. “I’m going to get you a pill...just try to relax.” 

She was gone and back before John caught his breath, the pill tucked under his tongue and dissolving, his eyes never leaving Mycroft’s. Once the crisis was past, he nodded his thanks to the nurse and spoke.

“Sherlock’s...alive?” 

“Very much so, and terrorizing the staff.” 

“But I saw...there was an axe...and I heard...that sound. God, the sound.”

Mycroft actually winced. “Yes. Well. Quite unmistakable, I’m...aware. But have you forgotten where you were? Because I assure you, it was not Sherlock’s body that was struck. The side of beef behind which he took refuge was the source of the noise you heard.” Mycroft watched the words sink in, and continued, “A meat locker is, unfortunately, not the strangest place from which I’ve had to have Sherlock collected.” 

“But he’s been admitted?” 

“He struck his head when he dodged and was unconscious for some minutes. He’s being watched, is all. Even so hard a head as his can be damaged. If you feel ready, I’ve arranged for you to be in the same room.” 

“God, yes.”


	20. Fanboy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: gen  
> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Mrs Hudson, original American character  
> Relationships/Pairing: None really, but can be read with Johnlock goggles  
> Summary: The boys meet a fan  
> Content Warnings: Horrible Stereotyped American  
> Word Count: 665  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.   
> Prompt: Yankee Doodle came lo London; put something or someone American in your entry or do an american-based pastiche.

“Boop boop!” Mrs Hudson’s voice floated through the doorway. 

John looked up from laboriously typing out another blog entry and waved her in. Behind her was a medium tall twenty-something with wavy blond hair and an improbable tan, given that it was February. He was carrying a stack of parcels and looking around the flat with wide-eyed delight.

“The mail’s come, and these packages are for you. Jeremy offered to bring them up. He’s Mrs Turner’s nephew, you know. Here for the summer, all the way from Milwaukee.”

“That’s in America,” the young man explained earnestly.

Sherlock uncurled from his spot on the sofa. “Yes, thank you. I do know where Milwaukee is.”

John gestured for Jeremy to put the boxes on the floor next to the desk. After he’d done so, the visitor stuck out his hand. “Dr Watson!” he bubbled. “It’s so great to meet you. I’m just such a huge fan; I read your blog all the time. ” 

“Oh, yes?” John shook the offered hand, a bit startled by the intensity of Jeremy’s grip. “Well, always nice to meet one of my readers. Thanks for bringing up the boxes.” 

Jeremy shook his head and said, “No problem, no problem at all. Oh, wow!” He dashed across the sitting room and began to reverently stroke the flocking on the wallpaper. “This is...oh! I just can’t believe...I saw this wallpaper in that interview last year. This is so cool...and it’s striped! That didn’t show on the television...telly, I guess you say. All the fans just loved the wallpaper, let me tell you. People were making tee-shirts and tote-bags. One of the girls in my Empty Hearse club made christmas ornaments for all of us, cut the design by hand and painted it with purple glitter in honor of that shirt you were wearing. And there’s the skull!” 

John intercepted his dart toward the fireplace. “Hmmm, yes. The skull. Don’t think they showed that on the program, though?” He knew Mrs Hudson had hidden it downstairs to prevent Sherlock picking it up and fondling it during the interview. 

“Oh, no. Aunt Marie mentioned it in a letter. She thinks it’s macayber.” 

John took a moment, decided he probably meant ‘macabre’, and nodded. “Yes, well. That’s not unreasonable.” He could feel the waves of irritation starting to pour off Sherlock’s rigid back, and took the young man by the arm. “So, you said you’re in a club back home? I’d love to hear more about it; maybe do a little write up in the blog. Care to join me for a coffee next door?” 

“Sure, that’d be great. And maybe you can give me some tips? I’m in charge of the club’s blog next quarter, and I want to make it look really English. I thought about doing a background of the wallpaper, and pictures of all the things. That big ferris wheel, and maybe a phone booth. Um. Box. Phone box.”

“Oh, ah. Well. Yes.”

He quickly guided Jeremy out of the flat, popped back in for his phone. He held it up and said to Sherlock, “Boring teacher,” before heading back down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue. “He ought really to leave the deductions to you, dear, oughtn’t he. I’m sure you could tell that Jeremy’s in sales.”

Sherlock twitched her a half-smile and dug out his phone. “Oh, that wasn’t a deduction. It was a code.”

Downstairs, in Speedy’s Cafe, John let his companion describe the activities of the Milwaukee chapter (unofficial) of the Empty Hearse. Just as he was explaining the puzzles they had in the monthly newsletter, John’s phone chimed with an incoming message.

“Oh! I’m very sorry, Jeremy, but it’s Sherlock. There’s a case on. It’s been great, but I’ve got to dash.” He threw down some money to cover their order, and hurried through the door to where Sherlock was flagging a cab. “Oh, thank _God_ for that code. Angelo’s?”

“Are you sure you want Italian? There’s a nice American Bistro just opened up…”


	21. Sunburn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: gen  
> Characters: Mycroft Holmes, John Watson  
> Relationships/Pairing: John/Sherlock, Mycroft/Greg  
> Summary: Mycroft needs a favor  
> Content Warnings: none   
> Word Count: ~620  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.   
> Prompt: Heat Rash

One thing about a heat wave, John figured, was the chance to make ice pops. He’d just set the grapefruit-mint mixture to cool and was about to pour the lemon-basil into the molds a very recognizable cough sounded behind him. 

“Mycroft, hello. You all unpacked from the big holiday?” He didn’t turn to greet his guest, being absorbed in using every last drop of syrup. “You guys bring this weather with you?”

“Hmm, yes, very witty,” Mycroft said in long suffering tones. John supposed he’d heard that one already. At least he forbore to point out that it was in fact hotter in England than in the Seychelles; something Greg had made sure they understood when he called for Sherlock.

“Sherlock’s just gone down to the yard, but I can tell him you came ‘round.” The lids were the fiddly part, needing a firm hand to get a tight seal.

“I am aware. I came to see you, Dr Watson. For some professional advice.” 

“Really?” Startled, John turned to look at Mycroft’s face. His very red face. Not from embarrassment, although there was some of that in his expression, but from sun exposure. “Oh. Oh my. Let me just…” John quickly jabbed sticks into the molds and unceremoniously slid the whole tray into the freezer, then briskly washed his hands and turned to examine his patient. 

The sunburn touched all of the visible skin on Mycroft’s head; his face, with the exception of the classic ‘reverse raccoon’ from sunglasses; his ears; his neck, extending down into the uncharacteristically open shirt collar. He’d clearly applied a balm to his chapped lips, but the backs of his hands looked angry and dry. It was his feet that were the most telling, though. Mycroft Holmes had forgone his usual brogues, and was in fact wearing a pair of hard-soled leather house slippers. Without socks. 

“Jesus, Mycroft. Haven’t you heard of sunscreen? With your fair skin, you should be wearing something with a really high SPF rating.”

“I am allergic to the main ingredient in the readily available brands. We did purchase a sizable beach umbrella, but...well…”

John had walked behind him and noticed that the back of Mycroft’s neck seemed much less affected. “You fell asleep, didn’t you?” he deduced. 

“How it happened is unimportant. I cannot be seen at work in this state; you must know of something that can speed the healing?”

Instead of answering, John returned to the kitchen and gathered a few supplies onto a tray, along with a plain paper bag.

“These are for pain and swelling.” He handed Mycroft a bottle of paracetamol and a bottle of water. “That’s for taking the medicine, and because your body heals faster if it’s well hydrated. Refill it at least twice today.”

Mycroft nodded, took two of the pills, and put the bottle into the bag. 

John handed him a small jar of coconut oil. “As a medical professional I can’t tell you that coconut oil is purported to have a myriad of health benefits. As your brother-in-law, I can say that it smells nice and is a really great moisturizer.” He opened the jar and scooped out a dab, gently rubbing it over the worst patch on Mycroft’s hand. 

“That is pleasant.” The jar went into the bag.

“Good for massage, too. I’m sure Greg would be happy to help you with the bits you can’t reach.” John picked up the popsicle. “Pear-ginger,” he offered. 

“Ginger as an anti-inflammatory, I suppose. What’s the pear for?”

John smiled. “Ginger and pear because they go well together. Ice lolly because it’s hotter than blazes. Next time wear more clothes, don’t fall asleep in the sun, and leave the blasted heat where it belongs.”


	22. Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock   
> Rating: gen  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Greg Lestrade   
> Relationships/Pairing: John Watson/Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade  
> Summary: John doesn’t like notes on the door. They never mean anything good.  
> Content Warnings: none  
> Word Count: 627  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.   
> Prompt: While You were Out. Watson returns home after a long day to find a note pinned to his door. What is the note? Who left it? It's all up to you.

There was a note on the door. He could see it, flipping in the sight breeze, from quite some distance away. He didn’t like notes on the door. They were never about ‘we were in the neighborhood and sorry we missed you’, because people would text about that, even assuming they actually had time to just drop by. They were never about ‘we tried to make a delivery’ because somehow Sherlock always managed to know when a delivery was coming and be on hand to collect it. No, notes on the door meant bad things. Mrs Hudson being beaten up and Americans falling out of windows. Breadcrumbs, a trail of clues leading to death and sorrow and oh-so-many regrets.

This was all in the back of his mind when he reached the door, panting more from anxiety than sprinting past Speedy’s. 

The door stood ajar, stopped from closing by a brick lying across the threshold. The note had been taped on the top corners. _Doorbell Broken, Come Straight Up_. The hell?

John set his shoulders and burst into the deserted vestibule. He crouched low before opening the inner door, peering into the deserted foyer for a long moment and then slipping through to hug the wall beneath the stairs. There were voices upstairs. Sherlock’s, Mrs Hudson’s, and some that he couldn’t identify. Nobody sounded like they were in distress, but then they wouldn’t, would they. Not his partner, who still took a positive delight in misadventure, and not their tough-as-nails landlady. His gun was locked away upstairs, but he still had weapons to hand. Nobody would expect his old cane, snugged away under the hallway chair against just such an occurrence. Held wrong-way ‘round, he could strike with the heavy handle. 

Armed, now, he began stealthily creeping up the staircase. He’d made it past the creaky step when he heard the downstairs door open. Shit. Caught between whoever was upstairs and the new arrival. He froze, and waited.

The inner door opened, and a small female form came through. Molly took one look at John, lurking on the staircase with the cane held threateningly overhead and glaring fiercely, and let out a little shriek. The voices upstairs went silent, and then Greg came bursting through the door.

“That was Moll...John? Why are you threatening my wife?” He stopped at the head of the stairs, staring at John who lowered the stick and lowered himself carefully to the stairs. 

“God, Greg. You scared the living shit out of me!” 

“ _I_ scared _you_?” 

John nodded in acceptance of Greg’s incredulity and shuffled to one side so he could reassure Molly. He sucked in a few deep breaths, steadfastly refusing to look at the landing and see who else was witnessing his paranoia. Greg murmured softly to Molly, then sent her up the stairs ahead of him.

“I’ll send Sherlock out,” he said, patting John’s shoulder. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything when he came out, just sat on the step beside John with his body held tight and small. 

Haltingly, John tried to explain. “There was a note on the door. Like...like with the CIA, when they roughed up Mrs H. Like the gingerbread man. I...I may have...misjudged the situation.” He cast a glance upward. “What’s going on in there, anyway?” 

“Greg was right. He said you wouldn’t like it, said I should just take you to dinner and give you a nice present, or have everyone ‘round for drinks instead of making it a big secret do.”

John pondered that for a moment. “You’re telling me I nearly assaulted the guests at my own birthday party.”

“Pretty sure that’s not what’s meant by ‘birthday bash’.” 

John snorted. “Yeah. Well. Surprise.”


	23. Special Cinnamon Roll

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock   
> Rating: gen  
> Characters: Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
> Relationships/Pairing: Greg Lestrade/Sherlock Holmes/John Watson  
> Summary: John baked some...treats.   
> Content Warnings: none  
> Word Count: ~360  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read. I’m sorry. (No I’m not)   
> Prompt: Improvised Tools. For a truly desperate person anything can be utilized as a tool or as a weapon.

Greg opened the door to find John hurriedly swinging his jacket on. 

“I’ve got to run; bartender down at Nero’s just called about Harry. Did you find out who’s sending those messages? No, don’t...just lock up behind me, yeah? Cinnamon rolls in the kitchen for you guys.” 

Almost as soon as John was gone, Sherlock appeared from the bedroom, yawning and wrapped in the dove grey top sheet. “What’s that smell?”

Greg sniffed; sure enough, there was the odor of yeast, butter, and...char. “God. John baked. Why did you let him bake?”

“Because I was asleep. Did you find out who sent those letters?” 

“No. Go lock up, will you? I’m desperate for a cuppa.” Greg slipped past his lover, shook his head over the dark and heavy baked goods sitting on a plate, and flipped the kettle on. 

“Greg,” Sherlock called from the sitting room. 

“You want tea?” 

“No. Come here.” His voice was surprisingly tense for someone who’d just been soft and muzzy with sleep. Greg leaned back to peer through the open pocket door. A masked figure had apparently caught John on his way out. Their partner was kneeling on the floor, his head held back with a hand fisted in his hair and a fillet knife held to his throat. Sherlock was staring wildly around the room, but anything he could use against their assailant was several feet away. 

“Ah. I suppose you’re our mystery correspondent.” 

“Shut up and get out here where I can see you.” 

“Sure, sure. I’m gonna shut off the kettle first, yeah?” Greg reached with one arm and flipped the switch, then grabbed hold of one of John’s rolls before turning back toward the sitting room. In one smooth motion, he hurled the sticky object at Sherlock’s captor. It connected with the man’s forehead with a resounding CRACK, and he let go of Sherlock’s head and toppled to the floor in a tangle of arms, legs, and knife. 

Sherlock relieved him of the weapon, waited for Greg to call it in, and then announced, “John, you do make very special cinnamon rolls.” 

Greg smirked. “Too good for this world, they are.”


	24. Shiny Happy People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock   
> Rating: Teen  
> Characters: Greg Lestrade, John Watson, Mrs Hudson  
> Relationships/Pairing: Greg Lestrade/John Watson/Sherlock Holmes  
> Summary: John had dental work. Mrs Hudson has a hip.  
> Content Warnings: medical drug use, implied marijuana use consistent with show canon   
> Word Count: ~870  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.  
> Prompt: A Long-Suffering Woman: Involve Mrs. Hudson in Watson’s whump in some fashion

A tooth extraction, John had said. Routine, simple, in and out and home to sleep it off. No problem. 

And it wouldn’t have been, except for one small detail: John Watson reacted strongly to dental sedation. It had started innocently enough, with John shambling drowsily into the cab, but soon he was commenting loudly about the cabby’s comb-over and getting handsy. Greg opted to walk the last block in light of the driver’s withering stare. 

“Here we are. Wait, let me...”

“I’m fine, Greg. I’ll just...just...go...up the uppity up things.” He tried to duck away, nearly dragging Greg onto the pavement.

“Yep. I’m sure you will. How ‘bout I unlock the door first. Stay here.” Greg draped John’s arm over the wrought iron railing next to their door and dug out his key. 

“Balcony up there.” John leaned back, the better to see the railing over his head. 

“Uh huh.” Greg gave his partner a gentle shove back into place, fumbled his key, and bent to retrieve it.

“Balcony...Sherlock should stan’ there, ‘n we’ll serenade ‘im.” 

Greg, concentrating on fitting the key into the lock, didn’t parse John’s statement until he started yelling for Sherlock to come to the window. Getting the door open, he retrieved the other man from the fence, waved away the curious passers-by, and hauled him by main strength into the foyer. 

“No...gotta sing to Sher’ock.” Greg had the height and reach advantage, but John was boneless and determined, and Greg didn’t want to hurt him. Finally, he just wrapped his arms around John in the most absurd bear hug ever, and opened the interior door by pushing him through it. 

“Oh! Dancing! Sheeeerrrrrllllooock! Come downstairs and dance with us!” John settled his arms around Greg’s neck and pulled at him so their faces were inches apart. “Need music,” he giggled. 

“Yeah, no...oh, God, please. John. Shhh.” He couldn’t help laughing, though, as John bellowed in his face.

“Meet me in the CROWWWWD, people, people.” He swung Greg in a stumbling circle and dropped into the overstuffed chair at the base of the stairs. “Dizzy, dizzy,” he giggle-shouted.

So distracted was he by John’s choice of music and inability to dance, Greg didn’t hear Mrs Hudson’s door open. The first he was aware of her presence was John improvising a verse.

“Best landlady around, love me, love me!” He attempted a charming smile, apparently not noticing the saliva that was dribbling out the left side of his mouth. 

Mrs Hudson stood in front of her flat smiling widely. “John Watson. Just look at the state of you.” 

John stopped singing and looked down at his jumper and jeans, trying to puzzle out why he was being scolded.

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson,” Greg said in the lull. “I think next time we’ll just ask for the general anesthesia. He’s...a bit messed up.” 

“He’s higher than a kite, you mean.” She giggled and looked fondly at John. “Sherlock’s gone out, and my hip is bothering me; can you get him up the stairs?”

Greg regarded John, who had slouched down in the chair until his head was leaning against the low back. This had the effect of pushing his bum nearly off the seat, one leg extended in front of him and the other tucked back almost double. 

“M’ leg hurts. Why’s that? Tooth roots don’ go that deep.” He looked mournfully at the offending limb. “Oh. It’s...wonky. What’d you do t’ my leg?” 

“You did that yourself, you daft man.” Mrs Hudson giggled and tugged his leg straight before prodding him to stand up. Greg slung one of John’s arms around his shoulders, reflecting that his back would be the next thing to go ‘wonky’. 

“I’ll get the doors.” Mrs Hudson’s smile was very bright in her flushed face. Her eyes twinkled, even when she missed the bottom step and nearly tripped going into the flat. An awful suspicion formed up in Greg’s mind. He chose not to pursue it, opting instead to settle John on the couch.

“Mrs Hudson put my leg back right,” John solemnly informed Greg. 

“I know, John. I was there.” 

“It was wonky. Prolly b’cause you’re a shit dancer.” He waved an accusing finger in Greg’s general direction.

“Yeah? Try me when you’re not drugged, Watson.” Greg sank into Sherlock’s armchair.

John stopped humming to himself, and looked up hopefully. “Tea?” 

“No!” Greg spoke quickly to head off any possibility of either of them handling hot beverages. “I mean, not right now. I think Mrs H needs to...um...rest...her hip. For a while.” 

John sighed and flopped over onto the cushions, not even opening his eyes when Greg lifted his feet and draped a blanket over him. Mrs Hudson, too, was relaxing, settling into Sherlock’s armchair with a contented sigh and letting her eyes drift shut. 

Greg looked at the pair of them. John, for one, was going to be sore tomorrow. Mrs Hudson at least would probably be no worse for wear. 

He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and snapped a few shots of John, then settled in with his laptop while the shiny happy people slept it off.


	25. 2595

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock   
> Rating: gen  
> Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson  
> Relationships/Pairing: none  
> Summary: The Sherlock Holmes Museum has some distinguished visitors, and a secret purpose  
> Content Warnings: none  
> Word Count: ~560   
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.  
> Prompt: Picture Prompt: Fanworks Through the Ages. (Picture of a poem published in the Milwaulkee Ledger, 1895.)

John Watson, the twentieth to bear that name, entered the museum with a bit of trepidation. He and his partner had taken pains with their appearance, donning frumpy denims and outdated shirts, but he still watched the crowd with a nervous eye. It wouldn’t do to be recognized too soon.

“Hudson said there’s a pair of likely candidates in the poison room.” Sherlock Holmes started down the well-known corridor, turning left into a sterile room fitted out like a chemistry lab. Visitors strolled past racks full of brightly colored bottles, several microscopes, and a miniature mass-spectrometer. A young man of about twenty-five was standing in front of a small case talking to his shorter companion. 

“People are so stupid. Look at them. They all believe those jars of colored water are actual chemicals, real poisons. They think you can tell a poison by putting it under a microscope for a few minutes. They’ve never even heard of chromatography, most of them.”

“I see.” The shorter man answered absently, peering at the notebook. “These drawings aren’t too bad, though. Which era is this one?” He tapped the glass and consulted the informational plaque next to the case. “21st century; that Watson knew his stuff. See, he’s sketched out Angel’s Trumpet, including the leaves.” 

“Come on, Archie, let’s go see the weapons.” 

“No, I want to see the handicrafts next,” Archie told his dark-haired companion. 

Holmes and Watson trailed them into another room. Three of the walls held a variety of paintings; landscapes, interiors, and portraiture, some digital and others created with more ancient techniques. 

“The Hudson said that there’s a new set of hats. They rotate them, you know, because they’re so popular.”

“Hmph. The original Holmes never even wore such a thing. But look there.” He was pointing to a graphic of tiny dark lines, about 50 deep, that squiggled its way around the room. A magnifying glass had been superimposed over a section, showing them to be microscopic words. The taller boy read the explanatory sign aloud: “By the early 21st Century billions of words had been written about Holmes and Watson. Professional and amatuer authors wrote works of fiction, and academics analyzed their unique crime solving techniques. In spite of the volume of work inspired by the duo, nobody has ever discovered the secret by which the titles are handed down from one generation to the next. The selection and training process remains a secret, perhaps one worthy of the great detective and his faithful companion and biographer.” 

“And that’s just up to, what, 2020?” Archie’s eyes were shining with delight and wonder. 

“And not counting words written by actual Watsons, either,” his friend pointed out. “I wonder how many words that’d be?”

“It probably says around here somewhere. I wonder how they do choose? You’d be good as a Holmes, I think.” 

The dark-haired boy smiled at his companion and struck a pose; one hand at his hip and the other upraised as if making a bold pronouncement. 

Archie shook his head. “You’re so dramatic, Bill, I swear.”

“Well, if ever I was to become The Sherlock, you’d have to be my Watson.” 

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, the twentieth to bear those names, looked at each other and nodded, then stepped forward to introduce themselves to the young men they hoped would become the twenty-first.


	26. Knight Errant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock   
> Rating: teen for implied violence  
> Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade  
> Relationships/Pairing: Greg Lestrade/John Wason/Sherlock Holmes  
> Summary: John needs rescuing  
> Content Warnings: violence  
> Word Count: 550  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read. (I...didn’t really have any expectations; the prompts have been so much fun thus far, and a terrific challenge for me to flex my quick-fic muscles. So I’m going to take this in a different direction)  
> Further Author’s Note: The way this turned out would make a major headache in terms of paperwork, reviews, and all manner of other official mess. Just...work with me here, okay?  
> Prompt: The One You Were Expecting: Everyone expects certain kinds of prompts in JWP. Today's prompt is exactly that: the one you personally had expected to see by now, but haven't. Whether that's a 221B challenge, a woeful injury, or a cracktastic combination - well, it's whatever you expected from JWP!

He’d lost track of time. He thought, was pretty certain, that it’d been Tuesday when he’d been grabbed, but who knew how long he’d been unconscious. He’d started out shouting, switched to kicking the wall when his voice had given out. The sound had reverberated around the walls of his prison, giving him some idea about size and construction. He thought it was a shipping container, and hoped the rolling waves of dizziness were the result of drugs and darkness rather than ocean travel. 

Or perhaps dehydration; they’d left him a single jug of water, which he’d been diligent about making last. He’d not used the plastic bucket in the corner in far too long. 

Was that a sound? Raised voices outside? 

“Hey! In here! Help!” He began kicking at the sides, trying to catch the attention of whoever was outside. 

There was no sound for a few moments, then a resounding crash as something -someone?- slammed into the wall outside. More shouting, then another impact on the opposite side of the crate. 

Someone had come. Someone had come, and was fighting to get to him. Sherlock was coming to get him out of here, to take him home. Greg wouldn’t be far behind. John flinched as another crash echoed through the shipping container. The voices outside had stopped, and there was a rattling against one end, as of chains being dragged through metal hasps. 

“I’m in here!” 

The end farthest from John swung open, revealing a grey and misty late afternoon. A figure burst through; John’s eyes were dazzled by the sudden light and he couldn’t quite make out who it was. At least, not until Greg was clutching at him, pulling him into his strong arms and breathing a litany of ‘oh thank god’ and ‘John, god, John’ into his hair. John fought the shudders that wracked his body, looking expectantly behind Greg and seeing...nobody. Greg was alone?

“Come on, let’s get out of here. Ambulance isn’t far...can you walk?” 

He barely needed to, Greg taking nearly his entire weight on one arm. Outside he was startled to see four men lying in front of the crate, two of whom he recognized as his abductors. Two were handcuffed together, the third and fourth secured more haphazardly with zip-ties, and all appeared to have been on the worse end of a fight. Greg was sporting some contusions to his face and scraped knuckles, but didn’t seem much worse for wear.

“You...you took them all down?” John husked out the question.

“Yeah. Saw the one sneaking off from the other carrier. God, John. Fourteen kids, a couple who might not make it, but you weren’t there. We found other bodies, too. I was afraid we were too late.” 

“You beat up four guys?” 

“Would’ve beat up forty. Four hundred.” 

He could see the flashing lights ahead. 

“We’d better find Sherlock. He’s...ah...back with Donovan. Doesn’t exactly know I...well, ran ahead.” Greg looked sheepish, as well he might.

“ _You_ ran off after a criminal, without telling anyone? _You_? Not Sherlock?” 

Greg waved to one of the medics, and called out “I’ve got Dr Watson! Dr Watson has been located!” Just before handing John off, he grinned. “I know. He’s the one you expected.”


	27. Soft As It Began

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for DEPRESSION

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock   
> Rating: gen  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes   
> Relationships/Pairing: past John Watson/Mary Morstan  
> Summary: After Mary, John goes home  
> Content Warnings: DEPRESSION   
> Word Count: 1006  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read. Ignores the existence of Baby Watson(?).   
> Prompt: Aside from you, I have no friends

And then John was back, back at Baker Street, carrying a small duffle and two smaller boxes up the stairs to the bedroom over Sherlock’s. 

Sitting in the red armchair, haggard of face and diminished in his presence. He’d never been a large man, but that had always been deceptive in Sherlock’s view. He pressed the bare soles of his feet not against the floorboards but against each other, grounding himself in his own misery rather than the flat he’d once called home. The upright soldier was gone, vanished into an exhausted slump against the faded upholstery.

Sherlock took up his violin and began to play. 

For two weeks, John was silent beyond ‘good morning’ and ‘good night’. Greetings and leave takings; the bare minimum of human interaction. Sherlock played through the nightmares, through the uncomfortable moments when wild sobs echoed down the stairs. He brewed tea and made plates of cheese, fruit, nuts. Finger foods that could be absently consumed without the commitment of a full-on meal. 

The third week brought the pendular swing. John began setting an alarm, waking early to take a brisk walk. “Can’t wallow forever,” he’d say, eating a bowl of porridge with generous lashings of cream. “Get back in shape, get a job.” Sherlock played while John cooked, massive dinners more suitable to a growing family than two bachelors. Roasts, pasta bakes, huge pots of creamy soup and crusty bread. Sherlock ate sparingly and discretely asked Wiggins to deliver the leftovers to his network. 

By the end of the month, the freezer was full and John turned his hand to cleaning. He cataloged the books in the sitting room, stood on a step stool to brush cobwebs from the ceiling, gently sponged the walls. Rented a steam cleaner to freshen the drapes and rugs. He never touched Sherlock’s experiments, didn’t attempt to organize his files, just kept the flat dusted and smelling faintly of furniture polish. Mrs Hudson was please, Sherlock watchful. He knew what was coming.

Six weeks on, and he heard John’s alarm clock go off. It was silenced and then a crash sounded from upstairs. John didn’t come downstairs for his walk. He didn’t make breakfast. He was silent and still in his bedroom. Sherlock took some soup from the freezer.

“John? Are you walking today?” The door was thin; John would hear his query.

“Not feeling up to it.” 

“Are you ill?”

“No.” 

“Would you like some tea?” 

“No.” 

“Are you coming out?”

“Leave me alone, Sherlock.”

He left John alone for three days. Other than using the loo, or getting a bag of crisps or some biscuits (and Sherlock didn’t even know they HAD crisps; where had John hidden those?), he stayed in his room. On the morning of the fourth day, Sherlock didn’t bother knocking. John didn’t even protest, just sighed and huddled deeper under his duvet. 

“I’m going to have to insist that you get out of bed.” 

“I’m ill.”

“No you’re not. You’re depressed. You’re grieving, for Mary and what she turned out not to be. For the life you thought you wanted. It’s been nearly seven weeks, John, and I’m not putting a time limit on your grief, but I think it’s time to admit that a little help wouldn’t go amiss.” 

“Fuck you. You don’t know anything about it.” 

Sherlock mercilessly pulled away the duvet and began tugging John out of the bed. “You’re right, I don’t. But I do know about watching my only friend not even trying to cope.” 

John didn’t resist Sherlock’s hands, just let himself be prodded down the stairs and towards the bathroom. “I did try to cope. I walked, I cooked. It didn’t _help_.”

“That was running away, not coping. And don’t tell me I don’t know the difference, because I assure you that I do.”

“Know about running out, anyway.” With this bitter shot, John slammed the bathroom door in Sherlock’s face. The shower came on, so Sherlock left him to it and went to heat up the soup. And to get a patch; if John came out spoiling for a fight, Sherlock would need to be in top form not to let him make it about Sherlock. 

He wasn’t belligerent after his shower, though. Instead, he shuffled hesitantly to the table and said, without looking up from the place setting, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I...understand why you did what you did. Have done for a while now. And I meant it, when I forgave you. It’s just...just…” John’s lips and eyes went tight as he fought for control. “It’s just so DAMN...God, how could I have been so...she...and you. And you, always you. Even now.” 

“What about even now, John?” 

“You. You took me in. You sat with me. You didn’t tell me not to be sad, or not to be angry, or...or...or anything. You ate my food, and before that...you played for me, when I couldn’t sleep. I’ve been an ass, Sherlock, and you’ve let me.” 

“You’re grieving, John. I wouldn’t be much of a friend if I couldn’t let you do that.” 

“Nobody else has. They don’t say it, but I know they all think I’m better off without her. They’re right, of course, or they will be, but...I wanted that life, Sherlock. Don’t you think I didn’t.” 

“No. I know you did.” 

“I’d have hated it, eventually.”

“You already did. Part of you, anyway. Even before the wedding.” 

“Yeah.” John ate his soup in silence for a while. “Sherlock? Why did you take me in? Why did you let me stay?”

Sherlock regarded him for a long moment, then answered the question, as was so often his habit, with one of his own. “Why did you come?”

“Because I had no place else...no. That’s not it. I could’ve gone to a hotel or something. Because I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted to be with someone who’d get it. With my friend. With you.”


	28. Desperate Poetry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock  
> Rating: gen  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes  
> Relationships/Pairing:  
> Summary: Molly is getting anonymous notes  
> Content Warnings: STALKING  
> Word Count: 652  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.  
> Prompt: Bad, Bad, oh so Bad! Whether it's bad art, bad fiction, or just plain awful, let the badness inspire you in some way today. Take a bad song and make it better, or make it so bad it's good? It's up to you!
> 
> Thank You Note From http://lizardalert.com/writes/thankyougenerator.htm  
> Poetry From Here http://www.deadlounge.com/poetry/poems.html

“What did Molly want?” 

Sherlock pulled a page from the slim file he was carrying and offered it to John. “What do you make of this?” 

John held it up to the light and studied the way the paper bent. “Economy paper, probably found in nearly every shared printer in London. Ink was running out. Um.” A tell-tale smear just along the one edge gave him the final piece. “And there’d been a paper jam just before this was printed.” 

“Very good. Anything in the text?”

John hummed and read it out:

_what have you wrought?_  
a miasma of betrayal as sentiments creep.  
once we were together in wonder,  
hand in hand and virginal,  
but your thirst died.  
a hateful pool of blood -  
drops of blood follow blood, follow blood,  
love torn apart.  
in a rush of vengeance,  
i still love you. 

 

“What the hell is this?” John held the sheet between thumb and forefinger, as if what was on it was more foul than mere ink.  
“It’s a poem, John.”  
“Um, no. Say what you will about my intelligence, my education, my aesthetic sense...I am absolutely certain this isn’t a poem.”  
“Hmmm. A threat, maybe.”  
“Where did it come from?”  
“Molly found it in on her desk.” He offered John a file folder. “There’s a few more, plus some other notes. I need you to go through them, see if you can find anything that might point to who this person is.”  
John opened the folder and scanned the next poem. 

_the night falls with a silent sigh, entwined are we._  
the light for which you sacrifice yourself  
flares once, then dies,  
smothered by the all-encompassing dark.  
all hope must end.  
your heart beats no more.  
how could you not understand?  
angels surround us, crying,  
sanctuary. 

“It’s horrible poetry,” John said, “but more than a little creepy. Don’t like to think about Molly getting these.”

The sitting room settled into quiet, the street sounds punctuated by the sound of paper turning or John’s thoughtful muttering. Sherlock stared out the window with blind eyes, running scenarios in his mind. A mistake, of course, theorizing without data, but it was Molly being threatened. After a while John turned to his laptop. He entered a search term and began following links, shaking his head a few times before finally saying, “Got it.”  
“Yes?” Sherlock leaned over his shoulder to look at the screen. “The Goth-O-Matic Poetry Generator?” 

“Sure.” John indicated a list of choices. “Pick what sort of poem you want; then fill in the blanks. Whoever wrote these used a couple of them right from the generator. Then they used the same formula, but substituted their own word choices.” 

“So...a stalker, but not a very inventive one. Insecure, but the type of person to know that this site exists. Access to her office…oh, of course! He’s on the janitorial staff!” 

“Of course.” 

“It’s perfect, John. Molly often works late, when they’d be likely to encounter her. They have access to the computer lab during their cleaning rounds, access to her office. Molly is always so polite, no wonder she caught his attention.” 

“So it’s just a matter of narrowing down the field of suspects. Molly’s dated the notes, so we can start by comparing that to the schedule.”  
~*~  
Two weeks later, they received a thank you note from Molly. Printed on economy paper, but without the distinctive marks of paper jam or low ink, it read: 

_Dear Sherlock,_  
I would like to personally thank you for the solving the case that you gave me for because I asked you to. I plan to use it for feel safer at work.  
I really appreciate your thoughtfulness in getting me the solving the case, for I did not have one and have been wishing for one for many years.  
You made my dreams of solving the case ownership come true!  
Love,  
Molly 


	29. Wolf in the Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock   
> Rating: gen  
> Characters: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson   
> Relationships/Pairing: none explicit, compatible with John/Sherlock  
> Summary: Werewolf Sherlock and Human John have a case in the Swiss alps.  
> Content Warnings: extreme cold  
> Word Count: 1293  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read. I think I’d like to have another crack at this story; I ran out of steam round about 10 PM, so the ending is...non-existent. It just sort of stops, and I know that’s a sucky thing.  
> Prompt: Picture prompt: Wolf in the Snow

This was Sherlock’s fault, and John was never going to trust him again. Not outside of London, in wolf-form. Not in the woods, not on the moors, and ABSOLUTELY not in the Swiss alps with a blizzard bearing down on them.

Of course, it had been bearing down on the young girl they were searching for, too. The case came from Mycroft, so maybe it was his fault. The daughter of a colleague had left her boarding school, hoping to enact the rite of passage that Swiss weres had largely abandoned two centuries ago, on the grounds that it was too dangerous. Abandoning adolescent weres, the summer of their first change, to survive on their wits from full moon to dark; how it had survived past the middle ages was a mystery. But the young woman in question had apparently skipped part of her reading, choosing to re-create the experience in December. 

Now John was re-creating it, too. Except for the adolescent part. And the part about being a werewolf, with the heightened senses even in human form. Heightened senses that might have let him see the damn crevasse he’d fallen into before he actually fell into it. Or told him that the strap on his pack was damaged, and the gods-forsaken thing would give way when he struck the wall on his way down. He’d landed on a bit of ledge, the pack had continued down, and here he was. Stuck. Without supplies. On a ledge. In an ice cave. And with no idea where Sherlock was. 

He could hear the wind buffeting the open edge above him. Night was falling, the temperature with it, and the wind seemed to be picking up. _Find what blessings you can, John._ His grandfather had said that, on some outdoor adventure or another. The tent wasn’t as waterproof as they’d thought? Well, at least the food bags were still dry. Can’t get the fire lit for a hot meal? Good thing they’d brought along trail mix. Stuck in an ice cave with night coming on? At least you’re out of the wind. 

“Here that, Grandad? At least I’m out of the wind.” He huddled deeper into his parka, pulling his arms out of the sleeves and tucking his hands tight against his belly to try to stop the shivers that wracked his body.

 

~*~

It was more than just following the girl’s scent, which the local were population had attempted. Sherlock had taken one look at the books in her room and known. She wasn’t just recreating an ancient rite of passage; she was attempting a Wild Marriage with a local boy. Whether he’d persuaded her, or she’d persuaded him, or they’d made the decision jointly, they needed to be found and quickly. 

“Wild Marriage requires that they take a narcotic tisane before leaving town. They’ll be confused, disoriented. The most common version of the vow is _over river and towering hill, I follow you with heart and will_. So they’ll be heading toward a river, one they can cross, that’s near a hill.”

Maps had been brought, a direction selected. One river, two hills, and only the two of them. He nudged John’s hip, pushed him toward the smaller hill, the one where he could smell less water. Hopefully that meant a ford, so John would stay dry. 

“Alright. You howl, I’ll send up a flare if I find them.” 

Across a river, dark guard hairs protecting his core from the cold. Up a steep and rocky hill, down its other side. An endless run in the dark woods. And now here he was, nosing into a makeshift shelter under a fallen tree. Two scents, male and female, not yet mated. Sherlock snapped at their muzzles, drove them out of the hollow and onto the trail before alerting the pack to his success. Back along the path, to the place of parting, and...John wasn’t there. Sherlock howled again, and sank onto his haunches to wait.

 

~*~

The cold was getting serious, now. John’s jaw ached from being clenched against the chatter of his teeth. The shivers were so violent he feared shaking himself right off the ledge and into the endless dark below. “Not good, John. Too much...shivering. It means...something.” Puzzling it out aloud, talking against the clacking of his teeth, he nearly bit his tongue. Since losing blood meant losing warmth, he decided to keep his mouth shut. 

That seemed to help, because a few minutes later his shivers slowed, then stopped altogether. He’d been losing too much heat through his open mouth. Still cold, though. Maybe closing his eyes? He’d keep the heat inside his head, and there wasn’t much to see now, anyway. 

_Don’t you do that, Johnny boy. Don’t you close your eyes._

What? “Grandad? Where are you?” In his confusion, he forgot his resolved to keep his mouth closed. 

_Keep ‘em open, John, or you’ll never get out of here. Now shout! Shout for all you’re worth!_

But his grandfather was gone, dead, long dead. Sleeping under the earth. Sleeping. What a good idea. He’d sleep, and when he woke the sun would be up and warming everything around. He nodded, satisfied with this decision, and let his eyes slip closed. 

~*~

John wasn’t answering. He wasn’t returning. An electric thrill ran down Sherlock’s spine: a ridge of hair raising itself up in response to some unknown threat. John was in danger. Sherlock whined at the youngsters, snapped his teeth under their noses, and chased them in the direction he’d sent John. The wind had blown the snow around, obliterating any tracks, but something pulled at Sherlock’s whiskers, dragging him toward a dark patch in the ground. 

A crevasse. The opening was small; man sized, Sherlock would’ve said. Lying down, he bellied up to the edge and breathed deep. John! John was down there, in the dark. Alone. Injured? Impossible to tell. But very cold, and why hadn’t he signaled his distress? Sherlock whined. He couldn’t go down, but he couldn’t leave. One of the kids crawled forward and Sherlock barely restrained himself from growling before he realized that here was the solution to his problem. He’d stay with John, and they could go back to the town and get rescuers. He sniffed again, then whined at the young male. A snarl and a snap, and the youngster seemed to understand, awkwardly crawling back toward the female. Sherlock watched him go, saw him prod the girl and begin loping back the way they’d come. Some minutes later, a howl rose on the wind; marking their progress, letting Sherlock know they were getting help as fast as they could.

 

~*~

John roused to the sound of someone shouting. “Okay, Grandad, I’m awake. Why can’t I move?” He thought he ought to be more disturbed by that fact.

“You’re strapped into a rescue basket. They’re going to haul you up now. Hang on, Dr Watson. Snowmobile topside, taking you to hospital.” 

“Sherlock?” 

“Yeah, he’s up there. Surprised he didn’t wake you up; never heard such a fuss. Howling and snarling and carrying on. He’s cleared to ride back with you, if he’ll sit the machine. Off you go, now.” 

Of course Sherlock did ride back on the snowmobile. As soon as the basket cleared the lip of the crevasse, he had jumped into it and hunkered down against John’s left side. Only when the rescue team pointed out that it was now too heavy to lift, did he grudgingly remove himself. And then only as long as it took to secure it to the tow sledge. Then he carefully climbed back in and arranged himself over John’s legs. They rode back to town together.


	30. Get the Tee Shirt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock   
> Rating: gen  
> Characters: Greg Lestrade, John Watson  
> Relationships/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/Greg Lestrade/John Watson  
> Summary: Greg suggests a catch-phrase for John  
> Content Warnings: none  
> Word Count: 221 (someday I’ll get the B, I swear)  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.   
> Prompt: "You are going to die tonight." Use this however it inspires you.

“Another Bourne, or switch to Michael Caine?” Greg collected the empty beer bottles and headed into the kitchen. “And should I get some snacks?”

“How about Brosnan? _Thomas Crown_ , maybe?”

Greg handed John a bottle and started sorting through the DVDs. “Can’t believe you like Brosnan better than McQueen. Weakness for dark hair, maybe?”

“Maybe.” John was just drunk enough to admit it. “But if you want McQueen, _Bullitt_ is good.” 

“Fair enough.” 

Some while later, after they’d shut down the movie and exchanged more empties for fulls, they sat in the dark, idly speculating about the case that had taken Sherlock to Paris.

“‘spose he’s okay?” 

“He can protect himself, y’ know.” 

John snorted. “Can. Doesn’t. You get ‘im into crime scenes, and I get ‘im out of...trouble. Done more fighting here than the whole time I was in the army.” 

Greg raised his bottle in salute, then looked at John consideringly. “You don’t look that dangerous. Think that’s why it works.”

“I look plenty dangerous.” John frowned and glared threateningly before ruining the effect by giggling.

“See, that’s what I mean. You ought to come with a warning label.” 

“What, like ‘please don’t torment the animals’?” 

“Yeah. Except yours would say ‘you’re going to die tonight’.” 

“Yeah? Maybe I’ll get that on a tee-shirt.”


	31. A Considerable Audience

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Universe: BBC Sherlock   
> Rating: gen  
> Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes  
> Relationships/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson  
> Summary: G  
> Content Warnings: none  
> Word Count: 454  
> A.N.: quick fic, not beta read.   
> Prompt: Canon is full of colourful characters, and we all know Holmes loves an audience for his deductions. Whether it's a grand gesture, breaking the fourth wall, or just the conclusion of a case in front of a crowd, make an audience part of today's entry.

The first John knew about the video was when there was a spate of comments on the blog. 

_Why aren’t you writing up the one with the delivery guy? -Juney-purr_

_tell us about the veg man!1!! -Maddox_

_I thought he was posing as a paper goods supplier? Come on, John, tell us. -SYSally_

“Sherlock? Did you put the Speedy’s thing on your blog?” 

“Don’t be ridiculous. That wasn’t even a case.” 

Sherlock needn’t be so scathing, John thought. Even if his statement was, strictly speaking, accurate. But if his husband hadn’t put it out there, how were people finding out? And not just a few, either, he realized as his computer dinged with another notification. Three more readers were requesting information about the...incident.

_It was very exciting. I think your readers would like to know about it. -Mrs Hudson_

_We’ve seen the video, but youtoob doesn’t tell the whole story. -MyCandleBurns_

Video? What? Trepidation made him type even slower than usual, but he googled up ‘john watson’ and ‘youtube’. The first item seemed to be the one people were talking about.

 **John Watson Collars Crook! Caught on my Go-Pro!**

Shit. 

He clicked on the link. A brief scroll of text introduced Bike Courier Jane, who had attached a go-pro to her helmet in an effort to show what assholes motorists could be. The footage started with a delivery truck blocking the alley behind Speedy’s. Jane was perfectly placed to capture the man bursting out the back entrance, throwing aside the machete he’d been using to threaten the staff, and racing toward the street. She also caught John dashing out the door after him. There was a short chase, Jane jogging along behind them breathlessly exclaiming about what she was witnessing, which culminated in John’s flying tackle to bring the man down. The competence with which he restrained the suspect was somewhat marred by a string of censoring beeps; John remembered that he’d become quite profane upon realizing that he’d torn his favorite jeans. The rest of the video was boring by comparison; John pulled out his mobile and called the cops; Courier Jane shut down the camera before they arrived. She’d obviously made haste out of the vicinity; there’d been no witnesses to back up John’s explanation and things had looked a bit uncertain until the blade was discovered under the stolen truck. 

“Is this even legal?” he asked Sherlock, who had come over to see what was behind John’s sudden silence. 

“I’m sure you can get it taken down, for all the good that will do.” He pointed to the hit counter. “It’s already played to a considerable audience.”


	32. Small and White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meant to do more than one of the amnesty prompts. So it goes. 
> 
> This whole experience has been great fun; now to start reading everyone else's offerings!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)   
> Rating/Content:   
> Warnings: none  
> Word Count: 631  
> AN: Only managed one amnesty prompt, and this one was wrapped up rather hastily. Ah well.  
> Notes: Picture Prompt: Edelweiss

The baby was crying again, her wails piercing the darkness and gloom of Sherlock’s bedroom. Two weeks. Two weeks of daily updates from Mycroft; they’d tracked ‘Mary Morstan’ (real name Shelby Richardson, which was all the proof Sherlock needed that she was American) as far as Brindisi. 

Two weeks of shoehorning John and Lucy into Baker Street, of John trying to soothe his colicky daughter.

Two weeks of John waiting for his wife to be hunted down, for her capture to be broadcast on the clandestine channels that would remove the threat to him and Lucy. 

Sherlock could hear John pacing the sitting room, babbling soothing nonsense. His voice was different, tonight. Beneath the soothing tones was an undercurrent of desperation. Slipping from his bed, he pulled on a dressing gown and walked silently down the hallway. 

“Here, now. Hush, sweetheart. Oh, God, please, darling. Hush.” John stopped circling the sitting room and began swaying. He tried changing position, nestling her in his arm so she could see his face. She wailed. 

There was an abandoned bottle sitting on the coffee table. John scooped it up, gently pressed it to her bottom lip. Lucy stopped screaming, latched onto the silicone nub, and suckled angrily once, twice, three times. But the moment John’s shoulders sagged with relief she spit the silicone out and recommenced her shrieks. 

“Lucy. Come on, sweetheart, please.” In contrast to the infant in his arms, John’s voice was harsh, cracking over the endearment. His face, when Sherlock circled in front of him, was grey and furrowed with fatigue. He couldn’t even summon up an apologetic grimace. 

This wasn’t the image of early parenthood that covered the brochures and websites Sherlock had surreptitiously been reading. He wondered if quite so many people would go in for it, if this aspect was more widely shown. Probably not. After all, according to Mycroft, Mummy had forgone her plans for a ‘big happy family’ in the aftermath of Sherlock’s own ‘challenging’ infancy. But thoughts of Mummy brought snippets of stories. Tales of long nights walking baby Sherlock, when nothing would soothe him except…

He strode decisively across the rug. If this didn’t work, no harm done. But if it did...he unsnapped the case and tuned the violin with more haste than precision. Setting bow to string, he drew out one long note. 

In John’s arms, Lucy’s wails turned to whimpers. 

He drew out another, lower note.

She hiccuped, tensed briefly, and went lax and heavy all at once.

“Oh my God.” John’s whisper was barely audible.

Sherlock slid easily into a simple melody, one he’d heard John humming in the hospital after Lucy was born. 

_Small and white,  
Clean and bright…_

He felt, more than heard, John slowly sink into the red armchair. Heard the soft sound of Lucy finally, finally accepting the bottle. 

_Every morning you greet me…_

He played through, then started over, repeating the whole song three more times before he turned to regard the pair in the red armchair. 

Lucy had fallen asleep, snuffling softly, and John was regarding him with tired eyes and a soft smile.

“What made you pick that song?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I heard you humming it, in the hospital. When Mycroft and I visited. Before. I didn’t know you were fond of musicals. But then, you always surprise me.” 

 

John nodded. “It was my Mum’s favorite song. She used to sing it to Harry and me. Lucy...well, her middle name. It’s for my Mum. Bit unconventional, I suppose, but not too strange.”

“I thought naming your offspring after the dearly departed was the height of convention. Elspeth is old-fashioned, perhaps, but not outside the norm.”

“Yes. That’s true. Except it’s not Elspeth. Her name is Lucille Edelweiss Watson.”


End file.
